Friction
by aerodynamics
Summary: The friction of logic burns between your bones.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **In this case, I own nothing.  
**Author's Note: **Flames are welcome. As always, you should read this with an open mind and pay attention to the rather blatant implications of slash and even slight masochism on Johnny's part. I have to thank Allison for reading this over for me and getting me to calm my shit about WTFery that makes this piece what it is. I am undecided as to whether or not this is going to be multi-chaptered or a one-shot. So just shut up, read it, and enjoy.

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**One| Friction**

The tops of your ears are burning under a furious halo of too-bright sunlight that streaks in through a dust-stained window. Tin blinds provide no barrier between the outside world and what's inside your room because they're flimsy, bent and breaking. Too many people have passed through here, pulled the cord too roughly and jammed them into a mess of flaking paint and tangled string that refuses to be straightened out. Of all the things you could be wasting your time on, you figure this is the most unproductive, but, at the very least, it keeps your hands busy.

What you really need, though, is something to keep your mind from spinning out of control. It's running through your day, step by step, trying to weed through and pick apart concrete foundations that keep you so perfectly weighed down. Reality—something you've been trying to avoid for longer than you ever dare admit—is banging on your front door with an iron fist. It's back with a vengeance, intending to take what it figures you rightfully owe it. It's here for your sanity, and anything else you can unwillingly package up to give it is just a bonus. These little gifts are like sacrifices, tying their hunger over until the next time they think you're looking a little too comfortable in your alternative universe that you're constantly escaping to. The one part of your head you think should belong to you, and only you, but you can't even have it.

See, the only thing you do have is slit palms and fingers because of the sharp edges on these blinds. You're reaching the point where you want to board up the window and say "fuck you" to anything that's outside this room. In here is safety—it's like an indestructible steel box. The peeling wallpaper and cheap lighting are yours, and you revel in knowing that you don't have to let anyone in or share the rusted springs in your mattress if you don't want to.

Everything belongs to you. You've bent the floor to fit your footsteps and taught the dresser drawers to smoothly slide in and out of their casings for your hands only. The light knows not to flicker when you're in its midst; the hinges on the door never squeal; the walls drown out invading sounds when you're trying to sleep and let them trespass when you need a distraction. The bedding adjusts itself to your temperature while the clock keeps the time for your eyes only. When you breathe, the walls breathe, and when you scream, they scream with you. There is a mutual understanding between you and these inanimate objects that you know you'll never be able to attain anywhere else.

But despite all the knowing and the understanding, it isn't home. This is just some rundown, toxic room that contains all the things you can't, like the feeling you get in your lungs when the blinds won't give.

The synapses between your nerves send out millions of little messages without your brain's consent, and your ears zero in on the sound of worn rubber soles outside your door.

You hold your breath and brace yourself against the windowsill as the door asks you if letting this person in is all right. Without a word, you give your okay, and the floor doesn't figure it needs any sort of permission to guide these soles to where you're standing. The uneasiness of the footsteps tell you exactly who it is, and you're even more guarded than you would be if it was somebody you didn't know.

Familiarity is more dangerous than a stranger's touch. You learned that the hard way, and while you shift in front of the window, your mind starts to wander into abstract places.

"Dal...?"

"The fuck do you want, kid?" You bite down on your bottom lip and wait while a shaky breath is drawn, a coat that's too thick for this sort of weather is tossed into a corner of the room that is on temporary loan to him—_only _him—and those over worn shoes are kicked off and sent to join it. "Ain't you got someplace to be?"

He shakes his head. You feel like some sort of pervert, watching his reflection in the window the way you are. The way he moves reminds you of some sort of low-budget film. It's forced and awkward, but you wouldn't go as far as to say that it's unsteady because he knows what he's doing, even if he doesn't know anything else.

"If I had somewhere else to be, do you really think I'd be here?" he asks. It's an honest question shot at you with the intention of making you think. "You been livin' in this room for over a week, and I just wanted to make sure you ain't starving to death or nothin' yet."

That's not why he's here. He's blinking too fast and won't look at you—all the typical signs of a bad liar. But if you didn't know what to look for in a liar, then you would've believed him. The conviction driving his words is firm, and you can't remember when that got there.

"I reckon I ain't no worse for the wear," you tell him. "S'more than I can say for you, though, ain't it?"

"That depends on what you wanna say, Dal." He shrugs and jams his hands in his pockets as he drags his feet and stands beside you. Dark irises regard you with an endless well of questions before turning to look through the window. His pupils contract while his eyebrows give away how confused he is. He's not seeing what you've been so focused on, and you don't expect him to.

"Quit bein' a fuckin' smartass." You push yourself away from the window—away from him—and stalk over to the door. "And shut the goddamn door next time, huh? You weren't born in a fucking barn..."

When you slam it, he jumps. "I didn't come here to be yelled at, you know," he says, and you have to wonder when he got so brave.

"I know," you hiss, tightening your fists at your sides. You weren't even yelling. The wall takes on its obligatory duty of holding you up when you lean against it, and the wallpaper knows better than to crackle and grate on your nerves. "You got knocked around by your ol' man again, and now you wanna hole up here and use my bed. It's a fuckin' routine, man."

The routine—you hate it. When you both slip under the sheets and heavy comforter, you find yourselves caught in a whirlwind of heavy breathing and tangled limbs. Skin always finds a way to slide against perspiring skin while lungs and hearts sync their rhythm of breathing and beating. Lips swell and chap against tongue and teeth that tear. Nails know where to cut, drag and bruise. Blood stains fingertips, veins hum with fragments of the things fed to raw ears, and the friction of logic burns between your bones.

Tonight won't be any different. He wants a hero; you're feeling heroic. But only because it makes him think like you're capable of some emotion other than lust, or hatred, or rage. You're not. It's just you trying to tempt your way in. You've made it farther than you ever thought he'd let you.

"You know"—he presses his forehead against the window and taps his fingers against the pane—"it's supposed to rain."

"I don't give a fuck about the weather, Johnny," you tell him.

"I do." He reaches over and tugs on the cord, jiggles the blinds, and the heap of bent tin and mangled string is the straightest it's been in months. "This heat wave, man. It's gonna be the death of me."

"Don't hold your breath," you mutter.

He either doesn't hear you, or he's trying to ignore you, because he doesn't say anything. Instead, he runs his fingers along the scar over his cheek and chuckles. Something about this room makes him bold—it lets him be—and you're not sure if you like it. This is supposed to be yours, and it's nothing sacred, but you'd like to have your own headspace for once. Everywhere you go is so crowded with other thoughts that you can't even hear the voice inside your head that's constantly berating you.

"You're always holding yours." He gives you a look that tells you he wants an explanation. "Why?"

"I ain't gotta explain myself." You give him a look that tells him he better shut his mouth because you won't think twice about knocking a few of his teeth down his throat. "Especially not to a little shit like you."

"Is it really that hard to answer a fucking question, Dal?" he asks and rubs his face.

"How 'bout you tell me why you really keep comin' here, huh?" You finally push yourself away from the wall and let the floor pull you toward him. "You got that fuckin' look in your eyes like you're expectin' shit—like you actually fuckin' want it."

"What's the use in tellin' you something you already know?" He doesn't look at you because he can't, and you know he wants to hit you about as badly as you want to hit him. "Just answer the goddamn question."

"Do I fucking _look _like I'm not breathing, Johnny?" you growl and grab his jaw, forcing him to at least acknowledge that you're in front of him. "If I wasn't breathing, I'd be dead, don'tcha think?"

"You _are _dead." He swats your hand away and shoves you backwards. Everything he wants to say is etched into the way his eyes are narrowed and his lips are curled into something that's supposed to be a sneer.

"I think I'm pretty fucking alive!" You don't mean to raise your voice, but you do. There's only so much he can get away with before your patience runs out, and you're always letting him push you beyond your quota. "Last time I checked, I had a goddamn pulse."

"Yeah?" He grabs the front of your shirt and twists the fabric to the point of tearing. "And when was that?"

"Why do you give a shit?" You slip a hand in his hair and tug on it just because you can. The hiss that grates through his teeth sticks between your ears, and it's such a dirty sound. "What's it matter, huh?"

"It matters because I don't believe you," he says. "I don't wanna share a bed with someone who's dead."

"That's never stopped you before."

It hasn't. He crawls in between your sheets every night without giving it any thought, and the sounds he makes when you're hovering over him are enough to give away exactly how much he likes it there.

"That's why you're here now."

And that's where you're going to keep him.

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**Reviews always make me smile. =) **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own; I borrow.  
**Author's Note: **Another huge thanks goes out to Allison for editing this. Warning for slightly graphic content and other things that may make you sick. As always, read with an open mind. I have decided to continue this, so we'll see where I take it. Call this my little stoke of genius. Mm, and before I forget, another thank you of mass proportions goes out to everyone and anyone who's listened to me babble about this story.

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**Two| Layers**

He has another one of his infamous black eyes, and you shrug it off with a chuckle because you can't remember if it was you or his dad that gave it to him. The swell of purple and blue against his dark skin makes you want to bruise other parts of him. It's his skin, but it belongs to you. Especially at night when you're swirling the tips of your fingers over him, trying to figure out how something so thin and elastic holds his bones together so tightly. You taste the sinews in the tops of his hands and wonder why such crimson blood doesn't spill or pool in his palms when he cups them. If it did, you'd drink it like it was the blood of Christ and devour him as if his skin could bring you the sort of salvation your soul secretly craves.

And you crave the taste. Sticky and sweet on your tongue like thick summertime air. The way it sits between the grooves of your teeth and doesn't leave, even after you've brushed them. You take solace in knowing that you're the only one who gets these little pieces of him—all these fragments that are going to eventually equate to a whole. Then it'll be all him and none of you because you can't be two people. Well, you could be, but your psychotic state of mind isn't something you need to be dwelling on now. You need parts of yourself mixed in there too, even though you don't particularly like who and what you are. You don't know what you do, or how you do it, or even why.

But him—he could tell you if you asked because he knows things you wouldn't expect him to know. He could color in the outline of your silhouette and not have to think about how your heart beats only nine-hundred times a day. He knows because he's counted, and you're not sure why you find that so pathetic and disgusting. The thought of him counting the thread-y _thud, thud, thud _resounding inside your chest makes you sick. It reminds you just how vulnerable he is, though you'd never say he's any sort of innocent.

You shake your head and rub your face, watching him from the tail of your eye as he shifts next to you. That perfect coloring of his exposed back, rising and falling with every heavy, sleep-leaden breath he takes. All the blood that's left in your body rushes between your legs, leaving your head deprived and spinning, and sits there like the heat in the South. Not only does it burn, but it's heavy, and it twists, and it stings, and it knots all your insides together until you're sure you'll fall into some cardiac arrest if you don't touch him.

He needs to be touched. Every inch of him is taunting you with words of mockery and things that manipulate all the working mechanisms in your head into stalling. They know you're weak to temptation and how tempting he is. You can't tear your eyes away, afraid you'll miss something if you do. The way you get off on him is almost as disgusting as him, as you, as these sheets.

Shifting, you gnash your teeth together and skim your fingers over his shoulder blade. The feeling causes all that South-bound heat to expand into the pit of your stomach, and he doesn't stir except to produce a sheet of goose bumps for you to do with as you please. You wonder if this counts as taking advantage of him. That space in your head reserved for all your perverse thinking tells you he wouldn't care if it was. If he woke up to your fingers prodding him, and your teeth clamped around one of his nipples, he'd encourage you with breathy moans and course, needy gestures.

It wouldn't seem wrong for him to cling to you and beg for more, or try and push down on whatever you have inside him. Fingers—or that lovely male appendage you're so proud of—he wouldn't care. And you wouldn't either because neither of you have morals or any other sense of right and wrong.

You flip onto your side and tuck a hand under your pillow, glaring at the wall. In all your insanity, you swear it glares back. Its eyes are two gaping holes, scorching you with the acidic familiarity of something you'd be better off without. Then the wallpaper peels back a little more, exposing a mouth full of sharp teeth and more of those manipulating words that just buzz, and buzz, and buzz inside your head. They're telling you to feel him, run your palms along his sides and inhale that suffocating scent of his hair.

Yet he doesn't think you're selfish. He knows you don't keep him around because you care. You give him a bed and a roof to lay under most nights. And all those lingering feelings of melted libido and ecstasy, the things he could never get anywhere else. Even if he could, he wouldn't because he trusts you in ways nobody should. He ignores everything you are long enough to convince himself that you _are _different from the perverts who hang around the mouths of alleys, waiting for a kid like him to take advantage of.

Just the thought of someone else getting their hands on him makes you sick. You know it's another one of the reasons why he's here. He's more than all right with being alone, but you're constantly paying attention to him. That's how you know when he wants it—his irises swell, and he chews on the right corner of his bottom lip. You know he's going to let you in no matter what you do to him and would do so even if he didn't want it. That's the glory of being you; you're some kind of fucking God.

But backward logic has been weaving whatever spell it has around this entire situation. Johnny is the one in control, and it doesn't matter how many times you run it around in your head, or how many times you tell it to any part of this room that'll listen—facts are never bent to fit absurd fantasies. You're like some kind of marionette when it comes to him, all mindless and doing whatever he wants you to.

At least he knows you'll hurt him the same way you'd hurt anyone else. You roll onto your other side—back to where this whole thing started—and glide your fingers through his hair. Black strands, as dark as the night you're so afraid of, coat you with a layer of grease like it's an extra layer of skin that moves with you when you start pulling away the combination of synthetic fabrics you call a blanket.

You _have_ to touch him. Your palm finds his side, and his breathing catches because your hands are cold. But then he shifts, reaches out with his hand, and locks his fingers around your wrist. Not what you've had in mind, but you don't mind a struggle.

"Did you actually plan on wakin' me up, or were you gettin' off on the thought of fucking me while I was asleep?" He lets your wrist go and rubs his face, trying to work the sleep out from the corners of his eyes.

"You would've woken up eventually," you tell him, eclipsing his body between you and the mattress. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" he repeats, pushing the hair out of his eyes. "What other sick shit are you doin' while I'm asleep, huh?"

You give him the sort of shit-eating grin you save for the floozies you sometimes pick up when you need the scent of a thirsty female to cover up what you've been doing. It causes him to shake right down to the marrow in his bones, and you've never seen his eyes so wide.

"If I wanted you to know, I'd be doin' it while you're awake."

"Dallas..." he trails off and bites on his bottom lip—that right corner you hate so much.

Running your tongue along his jaw, you let him tangle his hands in your hair and push himself into you.

"You're too easy," you say and chuckle against him. "Get your hands out of my fucking hair."

He scowls, shoving you back by your shoulders. "Quit touchin' me if you don't want my hands on you, then."

But he wants you to touch him. You lick at his lips and jostle around on top of him, ignoring all the names he throws at you as he drags his nails up your back and tells you to stop. It's not until his spit's in your face and he's calling you a "fucking pig" that you really listen. And even then, it's not so much listening as it is you backhanding him.

"That's _real _tuff, Dal," he spits, rolling his eyes. "You oughta just knock a few of my teeth out next time."

"Don't push me," you growl, wiping your face. "Don't fucking push me, Cade."

He laughs, but you don't see what's funny. You just want out of this room; the heat is getting to you both. It's going to put you both in the loony bin, receiving shock therapy twice a day because nobody really knows how to handle someone who's insane. All those volts they pump through the heads of the people who are thought to be some sort of threat to the rest of the nation and its mental health aren't helping. And if that's what people are calling crazy, then they obviously haven't met you yet.

They have no idea what crazy is. You're a poster boy for their treatments, and you'd never stand a chance if anyone ever found out how neurotic, and psychotic, and deranged you are.

So maybe that's why he's laughing. Or maybe because neither of you really have anything to fight about. There's no legitimate reason to snap at each other, but you had every right to belt him like you did. And you'd do it again.

Snickering, he grabs your hands and shoves them inside the boxers you watched him pull on last night.

"You know, Dal," he starts, letting his eyelids fall shut as you swirl your thumb over the tip of his cock. You can't help but notice how thick his eyelashes are. "Next time you wanna touch me, just do it."

The next time you touch him, you'll probably kill him.

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**Reviews make me happy. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.  
**Author's Note:** Thank you to Allison for looking this over. There was a lot I was going to say in this A/N, but I decided that it'd be better if I just told y'all to take it as it is. And I'm also going to thank everyone who's listened to my incessant babbling about this fic.

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**Three| Insanity**

He's standing there with his hands jammed into his pockets. Behind him, the hallway looks hostile and weathered, as if the years of steel-toed boots and drunken patriots has worn away its youth. Now, wild things take refuge under the floorboards, light fixtures are chipping away, and the casings that run the length from end to end are peeling from the walls. The air cradles the smell of nostalgia, which, to you, reeks like sex and burning cigarette filters. To your left lies the point of no return, meaning that if you shift another foot, you're never coming back. There are things lurking outside the perimeter of this doorframe, waiting to tear you apart limb from limb. And they'd suck the marrow from your bones as if it were some foreign delicacy their tongues only taste once every couple thousand years.

Sighing, your teeth lock into place as you twist your neck to look over your shoulder. Outside the window is a small swarm of lightening bugs, hanging in the air like they have nowhere else to be. A small part of you is breathing heavy sighs of relief—the city is expecting some sort of eclipse. People have been talking about it all night, and everyone, including the pretty little bird perched on the edge of your bed, is expecting something that's going to leave them with the chords that let them speak tied together. You'd love to knock them all down a few notches, but your lips have been sewn together all night. Words won't spit like venom, slick and covered in saliva to slip under the surface of delicate eardrums.

You shut your eyes and breathe through your nose. The room is whispering sweet little nothings to keep you sane. As long as the walls are talking, your mind will stay so perfectly balanced in the middle of your head. It's when the plaster falls silent that you want to peel back your skull and tear away the delicate pia mater strapped over your brain just to expose you and all your fraudulent acts masked under false sincerity. Screaming has never held such appeal, but because you don't want to make a scene—and you're not much to see—you step aside to let him in.

"Are you busy?" he asks, throwing a pointed look at the girl you've been yelling at since you brought her up here.

Closing the door, you pull your shoulder blades together, groping the brass doorknob in your palm. "Nup."

Behind you, he shifts and pulls his hands from his pockets to fold his arms across his heaving chest. "Is she staying?"

"I don't fucking know," you snap and turn around sharply. "She's got ears. Ask her yourself."

You trace your tongue over the backs of your teeth and look down your nose at him. The blatant lack of contusions and the absence of the shaking you're so used to seeing in his limbs tell you that he's here because he's feeling selfish. There's an ache in his joints, driving his motions—his words, and his thoughts, and his need. He's thinking that he's going to get what he wants in its entirety. But you hardly listen to yourself—why would you listen to him?

And that's only one of the questions you're asking yourself. There are so many things that need answering, and the real wonder here is how much longer can you teeter on the edge of such imbalance? There's a pendulum in effect, swinging lucid thoughts back and forth like the coming-of-age stories passed through the mouths of city folk. These stories get passed to their children, and their children's children, and this pendulum is some unstoppable force. It's a monster, letting the demons of instability hook their jaws in the force that pulls them along and obscures right-minded thinking.

Then there's humming. You press your palms into your eyes and grind your teeth together. Breathing—or trying to—you shake your head and mutter something especially profound under your breath. The girl on your bed takes her carton of unfiltered cigarettes from the nightstand and bites her lip as she stands up. Her heels click against the floor, and you watch her pull open the door with hollow eyes. Something in your spinal fluid causes an inflammation in the irrational part of your head, and you almost choke on your uvula, thinking that all those things past the frame are going to slit their way inside.

"Dunno how you ever get laid around here," she says and slams the door behind her.

"Couldn't get it up, huh?" He snickers and scratches his cheek. You can hear the skin flake away and collect under his nails. "I guess it happens."

You spit off to the side and shove him out of your way. You don't know if you want to hit him, or yell at him, or if you're on the verge of doing something so much worse.

"What the fuck do you want, huh?" you ask, rifling through a drawer you don't remember opening. "I got shit to do and places to be."

"You always act like this is my first choice, Dal," he says.

Car keys. You grab those and close your fist around them, telling him to quit acting like it's the last place he wants to be because he's always here.

"Not always"—he rubs the back of his neck and looks at you with a sly grin on his lips—"just when I ain't got anywhere else to be."

You grab the collar of his shirt and slam him up against the wall. His teeth shine dully in the lack of light, drawing your eyes to a metallic sheen like it's some protective casing.

"_Find _somewhere else to go," you bite, and he wraps his legs around your waist as if you're not a real threat. He doesn't understand all the things you could do to him—all the ways you could make him bleed.

"Where?"

You deflate, blink and clear your throat. There's nowhere, and you hate how he'll do anything you tell him to. He's willing, and he's eager, and...

"Anywhere that isn't here."

That's a lot of places.

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**Reviews are always appreciated. :) **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception. Jane Mathews belongs to my dear friend Cheap Indifference.  
**Author's Note: **Flames are welcome. I know it's been forever since my last update, so I apologize for that. A huge thanks goes out to Tensleep for looking this over and fixing my mistakes. Another thanks goes out to Cheap Indifference for letting me use Jane. And lastly, I must warn you all of the nature of this chapter. If you're easily disturbed or offended, or you're uneasy with the idea of whoring and drug use, then I suggest you look away.

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**Four| Starvation**

The keys you grabbed earlier have left imprints on your palms. Jagged metal to cut worn flesh—you swear that's its only purpose. But you're drunk, and you're reeling, and you'd swear that the sky had teeth if there wasn't some semblance of control still swimming through your veins. Your blood is singing such twisted tales, and it seems to be a reoccurring theme.

All these faggots who think they own you. The layers of tissue that compose your muscles, organs, and everything in between have been claimed by hungry perverts with razored teeth. Their initials are tattooed across your spine like an ongoing barcode.

You're just something to be bought.

If you had to point fingers and blame someone, you'd blame Johnny, even if it isn't his fault. He has such impact and influence on the things you do that you wonder if it's all just some sick conspiracy. If it is, you applaud him. It takes a certain kind of depraved to do to you what Johnny does, and you know that you've taught him too much. He's picked up all of your bad habits and made them his own.

That was never your intention. All you wanted was to teach the little shit right from wrong, but you realize now how ridiculous that is. But taking into consideration that you have no morals or ethics yourself, it was an almost chivalrous thing to do.

But the dumb aren't supposed to lead the blind.

Sighing, you shift against the rough brick wall and watch another car's taillights disappear. Tulsa's red light district always makes you crave things you know you shouldn't touch. They're so easily provided in areas like this that all you have to do is ask. This is the one place where you can have anything you want depending on how much soul you have to spread around. Every time you think you've run out, you manage to reach into parts of you that you didn't know existed and pull out things you didn't know you had.

What's an eye or a lung for a fix?

It's not like you have much to see or a real reason to breathe, and as you watch some gold Chevelle stop in front of your corner, you start contemplating your next move.

It's like Buck said: "Everything counts when you're doing something, but not before you do it." He's a terminal shit with his head up his ass, but when he gets talking, he has a real way of making you think. Even though he kicked you out of your room last night after you got caught up with Johnny and before you stormed through the front door, you know he has his reasons. Tries to make a living just like everybody, and who are you to get in his way?

That's the way he put it, anyways. He said he wants his money, or he wants you out, and either way you look at it, he wants something from you. Maybe it's not what you're really willing to give him, but until he's given what you owe, you're cut off. That means you can't live in the air there—no drinking, no breathing, and you have to forfeit your mattress. Someone else gets to pretend to own the things you've marked as yours.

Nobody else is supposed to touch them; that's what makes them so specific to you. The oils from your fingertips have warped the patterns in the wood, but it's like none of that matters now because you can't even put your name to a structure made of cheap two-by-fours and the insulation that makes you itch when it flakes away from the inside of the wall and crawls in between your bedding. You can't even pretend to claim that because it's not really yours; you've been lying to yourself. It's just another one of those things that ought to be regarded as belonging to you. In reality—and you hate reality—it goes to the highest bidder. Whoever has enough money.

Your body is like that. Everyone else is always marking it up, hissing in your ear that you belong to them, and then making you say it because that's when they know they've really won. Even though you were born with this flesh, and this blood, and these bones that never cease to ache, it doesn't belong to you. If someone can throw you a five—and you don't care where that paper's been before making its way to you—then you'll let them do with you as they please.

They always seem to want so much. They want to bend you, and stretch you, and call you by any other name except your own. You don't mind because it makes detaching yourself that much easier. Dissociating becomes a game.

That's what makes this so much fun.

Leaning in through the window on the passenger side of the car, you clear your throat and scratch the back of your neck. You wonder if this guy has a wife and kids. You wonder if he has a son. You wonder if his son is around your age. You wonder if he thinks of fucking his son.

While you're standing there, wondering and waiting for someone to say something, you think about how much a car like this costs. You can tell he's rolling with the big times—a real typical sonuvabitch who hates his life and probably wishes he could drown his kids in the bathtub.

So you think of Johnny. You think of his dad and how you'd love to get your hands on him. Johnny's probably at Buck's right now, laying on what's supposed to be your mattress and wondering where the hell you are. The kid is patient; he'll be there when you stroll in tomorrow, kick your boots off and head for the shower after you pay Buck. He'll probably even follow you, and taunt you, and ask you why you'd rather be out here than in there with him.

"My name's Mavis."

You snort and give him a disgusted look. "You look nervous, Mavis."

"I am." He leans back and looks you over. "How much?"

"Depends." You look down your nose at him and shift against the car. "You got kids?"

"A son."

You shake your head and look away, sneering. "You think of fucking your son a lot, Mavis?"

From the tail of your eye, you can see him squirm. You nearly reach over and choke him. Is there something in the goddamn water? Is there some undeniable force that turns fathers into fucking pedophiles and rapists? You don't understand. You don't want to.

"I don't do overnights," you tell him quickly, opening the car door. "And I ain't into no fuckin' ménage à trios."

As soon as the door is shut behind you, you lock it and roll up your window.

"You want a hit?" Mavis reaches across you, into the glove box, and pulls out a packet of fine, white powder. "It'll take the edge off."

"What is it?" You watch him cut a line into the dashboard and chuckle. A sense of unease washes over you, and you think you might throw up. Even though you're practiced, you can't shake the feeling that something just isn't right here.

But you take your hit and rub what's left on your teeth before Mavis grabs the collar of your jacket and kisses you.

The rush is undeniable. You know that if you want out, you'll have to call someone. Little Janey Mathews will be wherever you are in a heartbeat.

Because you don't do overnights. You just don't.

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**Reviews would be oh so lovely.  
:) **


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception. Jane belongs to the wonderful Cheap Indifference.  
**Author's Note:** Flames welcome. Warning for mature subject matter. More drug use and Dallas being a whore. Hopefully the next update won't take a million years. And, as always, reviews are accepted with open arms. Point out any and all mistakes.

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**Five| Control**

Mavis looks down his nose at you and rakes a hand through his hair. Blinking, you don't move except to breathe. The sheets have a thick layer of grime over them, but that's what you get with these by-the-hour rooms on the lower East side. Nothing makes you crave the hazy atmosphere at Buck's more than a room that isn't yours.

Considering all the places you've been and people that you've fucked, you should be used to it. But when you think about it, you're not. It always feels like the first time. And it makes you nauseous. Because with Mavis stretched out next to you, puffing on a cigarette and thinking that he just claimed some type of sacred territory, you'd even settle for being home. Dealing with the things your dad throws at you look small and insignificant in comparison to the trick you just pulled.

Anywhere would be better than here. And you'd rather be with anyone other than Mavis. Situations like this make you miss Johnny. He might be vindictive and manipulative, but he'd also give his left lung in half of a heartbeat for you. Now, by no means are you one for sentiments, but the idea of him handing over body parts like he himself doesn't need them makes you realize how good you've had it with him. The idea of crawling into bed with him doesn't make you sick. When you think about putting your mouth on him, or the way he bites at your neck to keep from screaming, your stomach doesn't churn and curdle. Your hands don't shake and you don't feel the incessant need to peel your skin back and scream. Not that screaming has ever fixed anything, but the temporary relief it provides almost makes everything seem alright.

As you lay there and stare at the ceiling, you wonder just how loudly you have to scream or how much you have to bleed before everything reverts back to some semblance of normality. Before you could be bought and sold—before you were _expendable_. It isn't fair, and it sure as hell isn't right. Eventually your number will be up, and the thought of dying before you've even lived puts you on edge. You're fed up with surviving. Once—just once—you'd like to feel something. Because if you die like this, here beside some John that doesn't even know your goddamn name, there's no way you could ever claim to have been alive.

Pulling the blanket up under your chin, you turn onto your side and glare at the angle where the wall meets the floor. For the first time since you let yourself get sucked into this business, you regret it. You regret everything. And now that you have the time to dwell on it, you despise every trick you've pulled, every bit of cash you've accepted and every fucking bed you've lain in between now and then. It's not as if you feel guilty, but if you've ever questioned what it feels like to absolutely loathe yourself, you don't anymore. You can't. Because you have absolutely nothing left to lose. You're at your lowest, but you swear you still have another few feet to fall before you completely bottom out. The quicker you slip, the more it's going to hurt. You'll hit hard and you'll hit fast.

That's how your mom raised you.

Gritting your teeth, you sit up. The bed-springs chaff under you, grating together. This is the most uncomfortable bed you've ever had the displeasure of soiling. But there's a phone on the other side of the room, so you ignore the way your muscles knot together and toss the blanket back. The thing feels a million miles away, taunting you because it knows your legs are about as stable as you are righteous. Yet you still push yourself up and trudge across the floor because if you don't get to that phone, you'll never make it out of here. The sunlight filters in through the curtains, and even though it hardly glances off your skin you know it's a real scorcher outside. In here the air is heavy—heavier than any burden you've ever carried with you. But not quite as heavy as the things you wake up having to face every day.

You don't want to think about it. The fact is that you've wasted your life, and you'll continue to do so until somebody comes along and slits your throat. That day couldn't come soon enough.

"Is there anything else you want?" The only reason you ask is because you have to. As Mavis stirs, you brace yourself with a hand over the telephone, thinking that he isn't done with you. He'll strip you down and take whatever he can without taking into consideration how much it hurts. He won't remember that you're human—that when he cuts you, you do bleed.

Of course he doesn't answer you. Just stares and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth while you stand there not knowing what to do with yourself. Like you want his eyes on you, and you can only imagine all the sick shit he's thinking about doing to you, so you take his silence as an answer.

You dial the number with stiff fingers. Turning away from him, you wait, breathing quietly. You don't want the attention he's giving you. If you didn't need the money, you'd give it back and leave and torch the room with him still in it. You'd give everything back.

"Hello?"

You swallow and lean against the wall, tucking your head into your chest as your palms start to sweat. Mavis is glaring at you. That slimy bastard. You wish he'd combust or just drop dead. Or stop looking at you because you can feel is his eyes all over your body. You're not a piece of meat. He can't just sit there and devour you like this. He has no right. If the shoe was on the other foot—if he was standing in front of you, bearing his soul and his goddamn—

"_Hello?_"

"Jane?" You press your fingers against the bridge of your nose and inhale as deeply as your lungs will let you. It isn't deep enough.

On the other end of the line, you hear a shift, some muttered cursing, and Two-Bit's unmistakable voice in the background. You half expect him to pick up the phone and ask what in the hell you want. It's late. Or early depending on how you want to look at it.

But it's Jane's voice that you hear next. She sounds so much like her goddamn mother when she asks who this is. And you nearly hang up, but that infamous voice in the back of your head compels you to speak. Because you've never been a coward, and you're not about to let Jane, of all people, know that you're scared. So you tell her who you are.

You say, "Jane? It's Dallas…" and she asks where you are. If you have any idea what time it is. But more importantly if you're okay. Even though you're shaking, and Mavis looks like he's going to beat your skull in if you say another word, you tell her that you're fine. Stranded, but fine.

"So, what, you need a ride then?" She huffs a sigh. "You aren't hurt or anything, are you?"

If she didn't sound so genuine, you'd roll your eyes and tell her to fuck herself. You're fine. Maybe a little shaken up and on edge, but nothing is serious unless it's fatal.

You tell her that; she laughs. And then you think about what a nice laugh she has and how you can't believe she's related to Two-Bit. Musing to keep yourself somewhere between calm and hysterical. You're sure that if you open your mouth again, you'll completely melt down. But if you want out—and you've never wanted something so bad—then you have to at least tell her where you are. At least.

"Look, you know where that motel is?" You roll your shoulders and try to breathe. "That one by the truck stop?"

"Dallas, that's all the way out in the middle of nowhere," she tells you. "What are you even doing out there?"

"That ain't important," you hiss. You tighten your grip around the phone and shoot Mavis the same look he's been sending you since you started this conversation. "I'll see you in a bit."

It's assumed that she'll come get you, so you hang up while she's saying something. You can just imagine her doing one-twenty in a fifty zone. Still, you're settled almost exactly on the border between Arkansas and Oklahoma. You have hours to kills, more time to spend here with Mavis and whatever he might still want you for. You are at his mercy.

The thought makes your nausea explode up into your esophagus. As you make your way back to the bed, you try to straighten up. He's the type of guy that'll gut you if you try anything funny. That means no jerking him around—you have to give him what he wants. You have him pegged, you're sure, you just don't know as what. And you don't want to know. It'll just be another thing for you to think about—something else to add to your ever-increasingly psychotic state of mind.

Carefully, you sink into the mattress and close your eyes. You feel Mavis shift beside you, but since he doesn't say anything, you pretend like you're lying beside Johnny. You pretend that you're at Buck's and there's tacky music you actually don't mind playing underneath your floor. Sylvia's slinking around somewhere, looking for you, asking where you are. And she keeps getting the same answer because nobody knows. You're elusive, purposely giving her the run-about. It's one of those nights again.

But you're not really there. It isn't another one of those nights. You're made acutely aware of that when Mavis shakes you by the shoulder and tells you to sit the fuck up. He has something you're going to want—something to make the time pass a little more quickly. And to eat away at that edge you're on. Because he thinks you could use it, and he is so, so, so right when he says that it'll help. You'll forget why you're here, and if he does something to you you're not going to remember. Which is all you really want. You want to be able to close your eyes and sleep at night.

You want to sleep now, but Mavis is rummaging around in something, making all sorts of noise that claws at the inside of your head. And you can't even leave because you have idea where in the hell you are, so you turn onto your side and start humming. Something slow and soothing that you remember your mom teaching you. Back when she was alive, still making sure your clothes were clean and you ate at least once every twenty-four hours. Mavis is probably wondering what you're doing, but you don't care. He keeps making all this noise, and it's driving you up the fucking wall. He's had all day to be loud and rude and obnoxious. You want peace—you want quiet.

Sitting up, you twist to face him. To glare down your nose at him and fist at the bedding. "Could'ja fucking keep it down?"

But then you see what he's doing. He has a spoon and a lighter, and there's a syringe between his teeth. It's intended for you. The flames curl around the silver, and you feel your breath leave you in one big rush. You don't know what it is, but you don't want it because you don't do needles. They make you squeamish. It's a genuine fear, something that fills you with panic and makes you break into an ice cold sweat. And when he sees it, he raises an eyebrow at you and smirks around that goddamn needle as if to say that you're taking it no matter what.

You act impatient. "Can't you just give me somethin' to snort?"

He shakes his head. He fills the needle. You close your eyes as he starts feeling for a vein, hoping that this really is just a bad dream. Really you're face-down on someone's lawn after a ten-finger night with Two-Bit. This isn't reality; it's some type of sick delusion you're having in a fit of delirium. And you could believe yourself, but Mavis has to go and stick you.  
In spite of yourself, your eyes fly open and you watch him pull back the plunger. Your blood swirls up into the mixture, and then he slams it all home while your heart hammers away in your chest.

He shakes his head, running his palm over your cheek. The chemicals are choking you, creeping up the back of your throat and trying to spew past your lips. You'd knock his teeth down his throat, but you're having a hard enough time sitting up on your own. So you slump against him, your head on his shoulder and your face toward one of the walls that suddenly seem sixty feet tall and a hundred miles wide. All you can do is breathe with your mouth open and your eyes open and you feel like if you open anything else, all of your insides will spill onto the floor.

Mavis lays you down. He says you won't feel a thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception. Jane belongs to the beautiful Cheap Indifference.  
**Author's Note:** Flames are welcome. This chapter is dedicated to Cheap Indifference because of her incessantly nagging me to finish it. Without her, this would probably have never been completed. I would like to thank Maggie for letting me bounce ideas off her, and I'd also like to say thanks to all my reviewers. I never thought something like this would be so well-received.

As per usual, point out any and all mistakes. Read with an open mind. But more importantly, enjoy!

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**Six| On Leave**

This has all been some clever ploy from the start. He's been fucking with you and you know it. Nobody in their right mind would want somebody like you—especially not some kid. That's all he is, just some sixteen-year-old _kid _who won't stop shaking even after he's dead. Maybe it's not your fault, but you can't help thinking you've had some role in the process of his self-destruction. You're always taking credit for other peoples' work, but this time, it's all you.

Except for that whiny, high-pitched voice you can't focus on. And the red hair that goes with it. They're both watery, blurred around the edges. All you can hear is some buzzing, vibrating into your spinal fluid. It's pulsing through your veins, taking the role of the blood that should be keeping you alive. But that's all infected, black and sour like those fucking negroes you cross the street to get away from.

You're sure that they buzz when they talk, too. Everything buzzes. Especially what's coming from her mouth. The more she talks, the louder it gets, and you can feel a scream bubbling under your ribcage. Because if she buzzes one more goddamn time, something in your head is going to snap and you'll bleed out through your ears. You know how she hates cleaning up after you. The last thing she needs on her hands is your blood.

But you wouldn't mind a hand. As you curl in on yourself, the muscles in your body lock. This _thing _slithers around under your skin, etching patterns on the inside of the tissue. You stop breathing, eyes wide as panic sweeps through your nervous system. It makes your hands shake, and you start _picking, picking, picking _at what's under there. You can't feel anything, but you know it should hurt. And you can't see the bugs, but you know they're there.

They're coming from her mouth. Whenever her lips move, the bugs lay eggs. Then the eggs hatch, and the larva latch onto your bones and swim through your bone marrow. You don't even know what sort of bugs they are. Flies, or worms, or maggots. They could be leeches, hanging onto your lungs and backs of your eyes. Either way, they're there and they hurt and they are killing you all too slowly.

Her hands are on your face suddenly, and she's _begging, begging, begging_ you to stay awake. Keep your eyes open. She doesn't want to have to call an ambulance. Not for you, of all fucking people. You can only imagine how scared she must be right now, and you wonder why. All you've ever done is given her grief, and yet she's never hesitated to save your ass when you've needed it. You're always claiming that you don't need anyone, but she's seen through that since day one. That's why she's here now, and she isn't going anywhere until you tell her to.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say she's half in love with you. But then you remember that she's Two-Bit's little sister. You used to fuck her older brother. And maybe that's no excuse for you to be doubting how you think she feels about you, but if she's anything like him, then she can play one hell of a head game, just like he can. You've never done well with those. Just look at where Johnny's has gotten you.

"_Dallas!_" She's panicking, trying to force you to look at her. Your eyelids are as heavy as cement, though, and your neck can't hold the weight of your head. "For fuck sakes."

She gets real quiet, thinking. You're starting to burn up, clothes soaked in sweat as your gut twists and clenches. Whatever Mavis gave you you're never touching again. You've taken things you can't even name, but none of them have done this to you. And it's all you can do to grab at Jane's sleeve, just to make sure you're still here and she's still real. Then you pull her into you some and swallow, and you can feel her breath on your face, cold and sweet and fresh.

She's always been sweet. About everything. Even when you've called her in the middle of the night, strung out on who fucking knows what and asking for a place to sleep it off. Of course you've made her mad, had her yell at you and driven her to the point where she's almost slugged you in the face, but she's always so quick to forgive you. Apparently that's what friends do, but you know she's more than just a friend to you. You'd drop Johnny for her without question. Because she's probably the best thing that's ever happened to you, and up until now, you've been too stupid and too preoccupied to realize that.

As you inhale, you feel her fingers in your hair. They're all sorts of calming, brushing over your scalp slowly, over and over. You hear her swallow, choking back something, and then there's all this yelling. So much of it that you start shaking and fist at the couch. You can't stand yelling, and you wish that whoever it is would just shut the fuck up. They're making you sick, to the point that if they say one more thing, you're going to puke.

And there's no way in hell they want to see what's inside you. All these bugs and that thing that's still crawling around, weaving through your intestines. It has these black, tar-like fingers that keep grabbing at you. They start seeping through layers of tissue, wrapping around your bones and clawing at your veins. Others make for your heart, winding around it and clamping down. And there's one slipping up your nose and down your throat, literally choking the life out of you. You start trying to suck back air, but the tar evaporates into this thick gas, expanding into your pulmonary arteries. It swells and swells, and before you even register the cold water being dumped on your face, you're taking this terminal sounding gasp and lurching forward.

Frantic hands push you back, but they're too rough to be Jane's. Your head is swimming, and now you feel like you're drowning. Jane's on your left, shrieking about something, and it's Two-Bit who yells back. Tells her to stop being so fucking stupid and go call an ambulance. Or just leave all together, and if you could speak, you'd tell him to shut the fuck up because she's been more help in the last three hours than he's been in his entire life.

Of course you can't say that, though. Your lips are sewn together, immobilized by a thread that isn't there. You just keep taking these grating breaths, listening to Jane and Two-Bit and their back-and-forth that's unsettling for reasons you can't even understand.

"Don't just fucking stand there!"

You hate how close he is to you. How mad he is at her, and she didn't do anything wrong. You're the one about to overdose on his couch; he ought to be threatening to kick your skull in, not screaming at his sister. All she's done is try to keep you alive.

"I'm calling Mom."

Mrs. Mathews will kill you. Especially since she's never been too fond of the liking Jane's taken toward you. And now that you've exposed her to this, let her see what you really do when no one is looking, she's bound to hate you even more.

You try to sit up, but you slump to the side, and Two-Bit has to catch you before you land on your face. He pushes you back roughly and growls at you to fucking sit still. Or he swears to God he'll chuck you out on the front lawn and leave you there. And if you make it, great. But if you don't, that's just one less thing he has to worry about. Not that he's ever really given a shit, but you guess that even someone like him has a conscience. Which, right now, is working in your favor. Because if you're going to die, you'd rather do it in the comfort of someone else's house.

It's really too bad Jane has to see you like this. You vowed you'd leave at least one person unscathed, but it doesn't look like that's happening anytime soon. When you go, you're going to leave one brutal scar on her. She'll be too scared to love again.

"Jane, can you _please _just call for a fucking ambulance?" he snaps, and he's shaking you because you're starting to drift off. His hands are curled in your shirt collar, but you're limp as ever, ignoring the way he's telling you to open your eyes. The voice in the back of your head is coaxing you into a black oblivion, turning all of your greatest temptations against you.

It's almost disgusting how you could probably touch them if you wanted to. But you refuse to be caught up in this hallucination or give it any sort of satisfaction. It isn't real. What's real is Jane's crying, and Two-Bit telling her to shut up and go somewhere else if she isn't going to be any help.

"I'm scared, Keith," she bites, and you know that's your fault. You want to tell her that you're going to be fine, but he starts in on her, saying that you _deserve _this. He doesn't know what you've done, but he's sure that you had it coming.

And maybe he's right. You just had to crawl into Mavis's car. The word 'no' never even crossed your mind. Because while you were sitting there, inhaling his drugs, it never occurred to you that what you were doing was wrong. All you were focused on was the free fix and how well he was going to pay you. And he did pay well—ridiculously well—but he also said that he'd be back. That he'd find you again and make all of this look like nothing.

The way he said it gave you chills. Everything reeked like sex and old cigarettes, and he just kept shooting you up with that numbing concoction of his. It got to the point where it actually started to scare you, but he just clapped a hand over your mouth and told you to shut your mouth. And when you didn't, his hands found your throat, and you couldn't even scream because he had his tongue in your mouth while he tried to choke the shit out of you. Until he figured that you got the message, and you just laid there, eyes wide and knees pulled to your chest.

It seemed like forever before you were in Jane's car. She had the heat on, but it wasn't hot enough. And she kept talking, asking you if you were okay and persisting when you couldn't give her a response. Soon enough, she figured out something just wasn't right with you, and she had to pull over at least three times so you could throw up. Her hand never left your back once.

You spent the entire car ride curled in yourself, gripping the door handle tight enough to bruise the tips of your fingers. There was a time when you thought your life was starting to reel out in front of your eyes, but you realized you were just stuck in some delirium. You were dying, but it was slow. Almost too slow.

Now it's coming too quickly, but you're willing it just the same. You just wish Jane wasn't in the room. Two-Bit really ought to make her leave; she doesn't need to see this. You're about six feet away from the end of this ledge, and you're about to take a leap into some great unknown. If there's life on the other side of all this black, maybe you'll finally be able to breathe a sigh of relief.

But until then, you're going to stay right where you are, peeling back your skin because these bugs just won't leave you alone. You grab at one and hold it between your fingers, feeling it squirm. And you go to squish it, but you can't because the fucking thing is made of porcelain or ivory and it's smooth and cold and you know that's why you feel so heavy.

The face of death is beautiful. Just fucking beautiful.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**: So it's only been about fifty million years since I posted last, no big deal. Flames are still welcome, and I would still appreciate it if y'all pointed out any and all mistakes. And as always, please read with an open mind. Merci buckets!  
**Disclaimer:** All that I know in this number is Annie and Mack. Jane belongs to the wondrous Cheap Indifference, and Hinton owns the rest.

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**Seven| On Return**

Weeks have gone by, and you don't remember any of them. Minutes, hours, days you've wasted doing absolutely fuck all, because you've been stuck in an almost vegetative mental state—the point of no return. Jane's been coming and going every so often, making sure you aren't starving yourself half to death; and sometimes she stays the night, indulging you in light-hearted conversation until you fall asleep. She needs the assurance the same way you need the company, and as it stands, you both have what each of you can't seem to get alone.

But a small part of you—and let's stress how _small_—almost feels guilty, because you know that creeping around Mack isn't easy. Hell, you've been doing it for the last fifteen years, and you still can't get it right.

And she's had to lie to your mom constantly, but you're almost positive Annie knows. She keeps looking at you with heavy eyes, and she's only twenty-nine, but she looks old. It's your fault; you make her worry all the time, have her staying up night after night for weeks on end when you decide to just up and leave without so much as a word to anybody. She understands, but you swear that if you live through this, you won't leave again—not as long as she's alive.

The irony in that is you sometimes swear she wants you gone. Not because she thinks you're any sort of a mistake—far from it, really. But she knows what Mack's like, and she knows that she shouldn't be leaving the two of you alone, but somebody around here has to work. You keep saying that she oughta to pack her things and go back to France, and she keeps saying that she can't; she loves him. You've never quite understood that, or what love is, because it all sounds like such bullshit. The things Mack does to her…you can't even stand to call him "dad" anymore.

It ticks him off; he thinks you do it to be a disrespectful little shit, and that's how he justifies beating any God-given sense you have out of you. Now, you aren't the brightest person out there, and your moral is so severely twisted, but even you can tell right from wrong. Which is surprising. You'd think that any semblance of anything remotely close would've been lost long ago, but every time Mack leaves Annie with a broken nose, or a swollen eye, it pulses, fast and incessantly, like it's trying to grow.

He hates you because you look like her. The same eyes, except yours are a lot hollower. The same cheek bones, except yours are a lot more sunken in. The same shade of pale, except it makes you look a lot deader. He can't stomach the fact that you _are_ the spitting image of your mom. It doesn't bug you any; you wouldn't be able to look at yourself if you looked anything like him. You did get his temper, though, and you're so fucking lackadaisical in your judgment, just like he was at your age. That's enough to drive you up the goddamn wall, because every time you get yourself into a situation like you were with Mavis, you can't help but blame him.

You know that for every physical trait you got from Annie, you have about ten more personality traits from Mack. He's unstable, you're downright explosive. He can't control his temper, you don't even try. When you see him yell at your mom, you picture yourself in his position, and you know that if it wasn't him screaming at her, it would be you. You've lived his childhood, and now you're stuck in his teenage years, and it won't be long before you're married to some broad you've knocked up, who's six years younger than you, trying to be a breadwinner for some kid you don't really like. You don't want to believe it, but it's inevitable. At least…you think it is.

Sometimes, you look at Jane, and you can almost envision this whole future with her. But it's mostly when you're strung out, floating in limbo land. That's when anything seems possible—if you wanted to fly, you know you could. So your thoughts, well, they have no stock, no worth, no nothing. They start and end in the same place.

You need Jane, though. There's no denying that. You hate to believe it, because you're so used to being alone, and she isn't even around all the time. But when she is, and you're having one of your rare moments of sobriety, you feel almost…normal. You don't know if it's because she understands you, or if it just comes down to you not wanting to be alone, but you prefer her company over almost anybody else's. That could be why her brother can't stand her, because he thinks she took you from him, or something equally as fucked up as that. Two-Bit's always been a petty asshole, and you feel like you've done nothing but enable him. Jane deserves better.

That's what you do, though—you mess up peoples' lives. Not intentionally, yet you always find a way to twist everything they've ever known and loved into some kind of monstrous beast they could've only ever dreamt of in their wildest, most imaginative nightmares. You have a gut feeling that before you started being all buddy-buddy with Jane, her and Two-Bit could at least be civil with each other. Hell, they probably even liked each other once upon a time ago. You don't know why you care; it's not like you have to deal with him. And Jane's a big girl now; she can take care of her own problems. Besides, you're pretty that sure that deep, deep down, they still have that unconditional love that siblings apparently have bred into their DNA.

It's probable that if you had a brother or sister, you'd have it, too, because you aren't as heartless as everyone likes to believe. Or…let's rephrase that. It's probable that if you had a brother or sister that _lived _with you, you'd have it, too. You're well aware of the other twelve or fourteen kids that Mack has floating around out there. You think you've met maybe one of them, the oldest, but you can't remember her name for the life of you. You do remember her being nice, though. Proper, almost, because her mom ended up getting married to some big time co-owner of whatever. And while she was proper, she was empty. The conversations over dinner were bland, and you got bored, thinking that the kids from your side of town had so much more personality.

You snort and roll onto your side, facing the window. You wouldn't call it personality, really. The reputation is what makes the person here, not what goes on behind closed doors. If that were the case, then everyone would be busting your chops for being such a goddamn pansy. You hate to admit it, because it bruises your ego something terrible, yet you can't help but feel that it's true. Especially because you rely so wholeheartedly on _Jane_. A girl. Ha.

She's downstairs right now; you can hear her talking to Annie. She's saying something about how you're starting to get better, and how she's not so worried anymore, because she honestly thinks you're going to be okay. And maybe you will be, but you're not holding your breath, because you've learned that things never stay "okay" for very long.

You sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes, feel the blood rush back into all the numb parts of your body. You don't even care if it's early and cold and you can see your breath fogging in the air, you just want something to make your throat stop hurting. You think it might be from screaming, because you're pretty damn sure you spent a good portion of last night screaming yourself hoarse. Jane says that it's to be expected; you say it's just more of her bullshit. And the voice in your head…

You clear your throat, stretch, stand up. Cough, stagger, grip the dresser's edge. You lift your head enough to look at yourself in the mirror, and you grit your teeth against what you see. No details, though—you refuse to pay too much attention. And instead of going back to bed, like you know you should, you shuffle out of your room and into the hallway, stopping at the stairs. They mock you with a thunderous clapping, planting seeds in your spinal fluid that burrow into your vertebras and fill you with the uncontrollable urge to retreat back to your bed where nothing can hurt you. You don't know what exactly it is you're expecting to be at the bottom of these stairs, and yet you know that whatever it is will not welcome you. A stranger in your own house—has there been a bigger cliché?

At least Mack isn't home. You can tell by the way the living room is still in order, and Jane isn't hiding in your room. Annie's got something cooking on the stove that makes your mouth water and your stomach mourn the loss of anything nutritional. You've been eating, but it's only been bits and pieces—little things Jane thinks you'll be able to hold down—and a lot of water. So much fucking water that you feel like you're retaining an entire ocean. Somebody could come along and cut you open, and you'd bleed water without it being much of a surprise to you.

Gripping the railing, you chew dead skin off from the inside of your cheek. Your mouth is so dry that you can feel it peeling, and it's the discomfort that convinces you to take the first step. The rest come easy as anything, and before you can decide what to do with yourself, you find yourself at the bottom of the stairs, choking on anxiety. With the way you're acting, you'd think that you'd never stepped foot outside your bedroom, and you try to snap yourself out of it before Jane or Annie sees you. The last thing you want—the last thing you _need_—is them thinking that you haven't quite recovered yet. You know that you haven't, but your cells are young; you'll bounce back.

They're expecting as much, anyways. So you pull yourself up a little bit straighter and try not to drag your feet as you slink toward the kitchen. And you do it slowly, because it's taking everything you have not to jump fifty feet sideways. The carpet feels like it's about to swallow you whole and digest you while you're still alive. You can feel it breathing under your feet, expanding and contracting the way human lungs do. This breathing causes ripples, waves, and you can feel a pulse in the plush fibers, static and boisterous. A cold sweat seeps up from your pores, and your palms turn clammy as you try to hide the shaking, but you're a goddamn mess of sweat-slick hair, snot and blood.

Blood. You bit through your tongue. Annie's leaning against the counter, looking like she's about to erupt into hysterics, and it's then that you know that, despite your attempts at being inconspicuous and stealthy, she saw you.

"What are you doing out of bed?" She starts toward you, but you wave her off without an answer. "Dallas?"

Persistent bitch. You open the fridge, grab the jug of water, pour yourself a glass. The motions seem connected, like one runs into the next. You don't have to think about what you're doing, which is nice, because that's how things get fucked up—you _think. _

"Good morning, Dal."

"Don't see what the fuck's so good about it, Janey," you bite, "but _good morning_ to you, too." You grab another glass, switch the water jug for the juice, pour another glass.

"Sorry," she says, and you press your fingers into your temples briefly, exhaling in one big rush.

You turn around then, glasses in hand, and let a grin spread naturally on your lips. You shuffle stiffly to the table and place the glass of juice in front of her, saying, "Me too," as you sit down. But you can't look at her—at either of them. You've never known shame, but you're sure this is it in its entirety. Your stomach keeps sinking, falling further and further into the floor, until you're almost positive that you're going to throw up. So you take it as a sign that you need to keep your mouth shut, and you re-bite your tongue, finding the fresh imprints of the grooves of your teeth in the muscle. It grounds you in some way, makes you a little more stable.

"How're you feeling?" Jane asks as she reaches out and takes your hand. She scowls, and you can tell she wants to say something you don't want to hear, but she doesn't. Just waits for you to give you an answer, and you know she'd wait all day if you told her to.

"Better." You're lying. "Just…thirsty."

And sick, and stupid, and so fucking immature that you can't stand yourself.

"Your mom made breakfast." She forces a grin and reaches for her glass with her free hand, keeping herself busy. She's starting to think, just like you are. "I think you should try eating something."

"Oh, really?" You roll your eyes and start tapping the side of your foot against the floor. "Because I don't recall saying anything about being hungry."

"That's _enough_, Dallas." Annie slams a plate down in front of you, and the sound hits something in your brain that makes you flinch. "Watch your mouth or back to bed."

You look at the table and pick up your fork. Your stomach growls again, but you don't want to eat because you know you won't be able to stomach any of this. And yet you find yourself ripping off a piece of warm pancake and chewing it without much effort. No butter. No syrup. You salivate. Halle-fucking-lujah.

Jane sits back into her chair, watching you carefully. "Johnny's been asking about you, you know." She pauses. "He's been pretty worried."

Which is just so fucking like him. You glance sideways at your mom and lean over the table some, even though you're half convinced she has you all figured out. That makes you feel like dirt. Like you've let her down because you're not the way you're supposed to be. You wouldn't feel so bad if she had another kid, but you're her only one. Says that you're her first and last, because you're everything she's ever wanted in a child. Of course you figure that she has to be lying, because if you were her and she was you, you wouldn't want yourself at all. Not even if someone paid you.

"Did you hear what I said?" Jane rolls her eyes. "Jesus Christ, Dallas. Get your head out of your ass, huh?"

"I heard what you fucking said, Jane," you snap, pushing your plate away from you because you can't do this. "What's he want?"

"I don't know!" She slumps forward, propping herself up on her elbows and gives you a long, hard look. "You know…you really piss me off, Winston."

You almost laugh, because it's almost like nothing was ever wrong. You're both back to bickering with each other, her taking shots at you that she probably thinks are all in good fun. It's like she does it on purpose, since she knows that you'd never pass up the opportunity to spit a witty comment, or make her remember that you're nothing more than an egotistical asshole who doesn't give a shit about anyone other than yourself. You don't know if that's actually what she thinks of you, but you let yourself pretend that she does, because it makes keeping her at arm's length easier.

"Yeah? Go fuck yourself." You slide your chair back and push yourself up, figuring that you can't take much more of this. You're going to get out of this house, make back all the money you've lost from spending who the hell knows how long cooped up in here, and then you're going to go find Johnny and tell him to leave you the fuck alone.

He's the main reason you refuse to believe that you need anyone other than yourself. Constantly fucking with your head, like he doesn't have anything better to do. But it's not just him, because you know that everyone else is just toying with you, too. It's just that he's the worst, and what makes it so unbearable is that he is the last person you'd expect this from. After so long, you'd think you'd be used to it.

But you don't like being fucked with. You just don't.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaim: **I don't own; I borrow.  
**Author's Note: **As always, I welcome your flames with very open, very warm arms. Apologies for the ridiculous amount of time it took to update again. See any mistakes? That's great. You know the drill by now, folks! This chapter is once again dedicated to the always lovely Cheap Indifference, for without her constant hound (meaning that in the best possible way) this would never have gotten done. Let the record show that I don't like this chapter, but fuck rewriting it. Read and enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Eight| King of Convenience**

You walk into the Curtises' household, through the front door, as if you still have the right to hold your head as high as you are. The screen door slams shut behind you with a _slap! _and you almost pull an about-face, because perched on the couch in all his denim-clad glory is Johnny Cade. He's fixated on the television, concentrating hard, trying to understand.

To your surprise, Two-Bit is the one that gives you some acknowledgement. Nothing friendly, but for the sake of saving face, you nod back. He looks at you with something between contempt and concern, and you're glad that you're buzzing; that look would have you tucking tail otherwise. One of the many things you don't like feeling is patronized, even if you do know that you deserve it, and if anybody has ever had the right to make you feel this way, it's him. And maybe Johnny. They've both seen you in your worst forms, ravenous and feverish for destruction.

Swallowing, you hear Johnny clear his throat and finally take into consideration that you're little over three feet away from him. In the millisecond that it takes for him to meet your gaze and let his eyes drift back to the TV, you start to feel as if the ground under your feet is splitting apart. You're standing on a fault line, waiting to be consumed—waiting to finally be put out of your misery.

"Did Jane tell you I was looking for you?" Johnny seems to sink into the couch, and he's grinning like he _knows_. "She told me you weren't feelin' too hot."

You can't help but sneer at that. And then you almost start to feel like yourself, so you swipe at the blood under your nose and light yourself a Kool. "You knew where I was at," you mutter through a cloud of smoke, unzipping your jacket, looking for a way out.

The light in the bathroom is off. You chew some dead skin off your tongue, telling yourself that even though it's a million miles away, with a little pacing, you'll make it. Even if you have to drag yourself there piece by piece, which you just might, because Johnny takes it upon himself to _follow_ you. You wonder if he thinks he's doing you a goddamn favor, trying to keep watch like he'll be able to prevent you from doing something else stupid. Maybe if he hopes and prays hard enough, because when it comes down to it, you're going to do whatever the hell you want to do. Some dumb kid with his head up his ass isn't going to change your mind.

He locks the door behind him, and you can tell he's still holding out on the fact that maybe you care. Maybe you'll straighten out and get your act together if he asks real nicely, proving that you have some form of humanity left in you, at least where he's concerned. But he should know better than anybody else that you don't, that there's nothing. You are numb, and he is every bit to blame as everybody else.

You lean into the mirror and look at yourself for the first time since you left that last guy's car. He was well into his forties, married for nearly twenty years. Said his wife just doesn't look at him the same way anymore since they hired that new caddy down at the country club. Told you that he knows she's in his saddle, that he's polishing more than her clubs. The things you hear really do amaze you sometimes, but you do like to know your clients. A lot of the time, it leaves your wallet heavier.

It's sick, really. You're acutely aware of the undeniably haunting fact that you will never learn. All of Two-Bit and Jane's help for nothing, their worrying heedless. All the nights Jane's spent with you don't mean a thing, because every effort she put into keeping you alive flew out the window the moment you uttered your two most infamous last words, voiced the question of _how much_.

What really almost put you over the edge this time was all the talk about how pretty he thought you were. Far prettier than any boy should ever be. And then he touched your cheek so tenderly, commented on how smooth your skin was and said he hoped you were smooth where it really counted.

You pass your cigarette off to Johnny and run the tap. Steam floats up around the spray of hot water, and you soak the edge of a used facecloth under it before cracking the bones in your neck. You close your eyes and roll your shoulders slowly, hoping you can relieve even a dismal amount of tension—of fear and worry and disgust. You want to take this cloth and scrub your inside with it, work away the grit and the decay, make yourself clean again. Maybe even take away the hurt if you're lucky. Even for a second.

Johnny's watching you. He's stoic, and it's unnerving, the way his eyes, black as sin, follow every move you make. It's as if he thinks he can get closer to you this way, finally figure out how you really work. But the thing is that even you don't understand it, and you don't suppose you ever will; and you know that he isn't smart enough to understand it, either, so you have nothing to worry about.

"Your mom must be so proud of you." He snickers to himself before fixing you with a nerve-splitting grin, the kind that sets forth a white-hot tingling in the part of your brain and recognizes danger. "What bullshit did you feed her this time, huh?"

You try to shut him out, pretend he's not really there, like one of your hallucinations. He's no more real than the voice you hear in your head most nights, telling you to wake up in the hopes that you'll finally give in. If you ignore him enough, he'll go away.

"You are so…" he trails off, staring at you, letting his eyes grow darker. Then he closes the gap you intentionally left and takes your jaw in his hand, _tsk_ing at all the damage. "It's a shame you went and ruined a face like this, you know."

He takes the cloth from you and tries to work away the dark red, half-dried stain smeared along your cheek. He presses too hard on purpose, and you can see that he gets off on the way you recoil and yelp.

"There, there, Dal." He's so condescending that you could choke him, talking down to you as if you're some kind of scared wild animal he's trying to reign in.

"Get your hands off me," you hiss, snatching his wrist in an iron-tight grip. "I will snap your fucking arm off."

He smirks, smug as if he's winning some game you didn't know you were playing. "Will you?"

Instinctively, you tighten your grip. His skin starts to purple, swell, and your lip twitches up into a sneer. "You that fuckin' dumb, kid?" You jerk him around and twist his arm up behind his back, slamming him face-first into the counter. "I'll gut you an' not think twice about it." And you shove his arm up higher, until you hear his breathing turn ragged and feel him shake. You can just about taste his fear.

"Let me go," he bites, but you twist harder. "Dallas, my arm…"

In a moment of precious insanity, you kiss the back of his neck and laugh, steely and bitter. You swore that the next time you got your hands on him, you'd kill him, but the satisfaction isn't there like you hoped it would be.

"You're damn lucky," you whisper with your lips moving against his ear, cold breath to make him shiver. You dart your tongue out and flick the back of it against his earlobe. "I oughta break your neck."

That's when he starts to really shake, because he knows that you mean it. He swallows and grips the sink with his free hand, mumbling something under his breath that makes you laugh again. But it's different this time. This time, it's grating, pitched higher, uncontrolled. You sound fucking crazy.

"Why… don't we just leave, huh?" he suggests, and he sounds so desperate and pathetic that you can't help but wrinkle your nose at him.

"Eh." You stroke your fingers through his hair and shrug. "We could. Went and got Buck's money an' all, but…"

To be rather frank, you don't want to go anywhere with him. You are sick and tired of being a pawn in his little mind games. He has no right to use you the way he does, and as far as you're concerned, you aren't wasting another breath on him. He can find somebody else to jerk around, find another toy to play with. You've been letting him get away with far, far too much, and now, all you want to do is make him bleed. Introduce him to a thousand different worlds of hurt. Let him know that you're the one in the control.

You reach around him and shut the tap off finally when the steam starts to irritate your pulmonary tubes. You let his arm go and step back, because if he gives you one sideways look, or shoots his mouth off, you're going to follow through on your word for once in your life. It's what you figure he deserves, and you think that his dad is justified in what he does to the kid, because you've never felt so much hate for a person.

"Let's go," you bark, and you shove him toward the door when he doesn't move. "Now."

He puffs his jacket out and unlocks the door, and you can tell he's biting back all the things he wants to say. You find it amusing that it takes you being ill balanced and on the brink of cutting him open for him to shut his mouth. Fear, you think, is such a funny thing, makes people act so differently. You like him better when he's quiet, though, so it's working in his favor, which just figures.

You're starting to wonder if you'll ever win. It seems like every move you make, every step you take, only benefits him. He feeds off the simple fact that you're alive. You can't even begin to figure out how things got this way—when he got so controlling, and you gave him all this power. It never used to be this way, and you wouldn't go as far as to say that he scares you any, but he's manipulating and knows how to rip you into all these little pieces that he just keeps burning. The only thing you can't tell is who's stuck to whom. You know you need him, and it's disgustingly obvious that he'd be dead if you weren't around, but you'd like for whatever greater power is out there to tell you what the point of this all is. He only keeps you around because he'd have nowhere to go otherwise, and you let him because… because you guess you need to feel needed. Like you have purpose.

The realization makes you fizzle out. You bite on your lip and tug your hands through your hair, thinking like you really just need to sleep this all off, even if you do hate closing your eyes for extended amounts of time, since that always seems to be when the voices you hear are loudest. One of these days you're going to put them to rest, whether that means physically cutting them out of you or not. Your mom told you once that things have a way of fixing themselves and that time is the world's most powerful healer. How much of that you believe is another story.

You squeeze on Johnny's shoulder briefly and watch as he lets his shoulders slump into something more relaxed. It's as close to an apology as he's going to get, no matter how badly you owe him one. But then… that's all just part of his mind fuck, isn't it? It's what he wants you to think, that you're in the wrong and you owe him this, that, and the other thing.

This is the last time you get this close to somebody. You swear by it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Well, my darlings, it has been fun! I am bringing you the final chapter of Friction. To everyone that has been along for the ride and reviewed religiously, I thank you immensly. Flames are and always will be welcome. Please point out any and all mistakes, because Lord knows that I don't catch them all.

**Disclaim: **I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.

* * *

It's late. Loud music, dim lights. You're in Buck's office. The sounds from beyond the door are muted, and you know you have to be in all kinds of shit with him, because why else would you be back here? This is where he does his business, and for as long as you can remember, it's been reserved for knocking the sense into ignorant bastards that don't think the rules apply to them. You've never actually been back here yourself for anything other than a quick how-do-you-do of sorts from the doorway. He has never specifically asked you to sit across from him, on the other side of his desk, because you've fucked up.

You look at him and swipe your thumb under your nose as you shift in your chair. Johnny's hanging back by the bookshelf, trying to busy himself, but you know he's listening. You know you ought to be, too, but the words coming from Buck's mouth all run together into a string of incoherency. All you can do is nod and pretend for the sake of your room that you're paying attention, but you've heard this all a thousand fucking times from him. You know that no matter what, Buck is always going to have your back; it's just inconvenient and so goddamn _annoying _how he believes in this thing he likes to call tough love. He thinks you still have a lot to learn about how the real world works, which goes to show how little he really knows. If there's anybody who knows about the _real world,_ it's you. He's spent all his life looking after his granddaddy's bar, and if you have to be quite frank with yourself, you think Buck needs to take his head out of his ass.

He sighs when he catches onto the fact that you've let your mind wander and leans forward. "One of these days," he starts, "someone's gonna get real fed up with your bullshit."

You shrug and lean back, turn your head enough to look at Johnny. "I ain't here for a fuckin' life lesson, Buck."

And you're not. You understand where he's coming from, though, and maybe that's your problem. His point is that you're not bulletproof, and even though you've never claimed to be, you know why he insists on reminding you. Eventually you're going to piss off the wrong people, but you've thought about that, and maybe subconsciously, that's what you've been trying to do. The thing is that you don't care, and Buck doesn't seem to grasp that. You've told him you don't know how many times that you're past the point of caring, but the words seem to fall on deaf ears, or he chooses to ignore you all together. He considers you something of a brother. You can't help but think there's something perverse behind it.

Reaching into your pocket, you scowl and look back at Buck. He's waiting for you to do or say something, tapping his fingers on the top of his desk. You have half a mind to get up and take your business elsewhere, but you have a hard time imagining anybody else being as lenient as he is. Instead, you slam your money down in front of him and recoil as if all the filth and degradation of your actions—everything you wish you'd never done just so you can keep that stupid room—burn. As you watch him take it, you can't reign your mind back in. You start to wonder if this was all some kind of clever ploy he had from the start, to make you revert back to doing something you've been trying to stop since you were all of eight years old. The only difference between now and then is that _now _you do it by choice. It's easy because there will always be some sick fuck waiting for someone like you, and there will always be someone like you waiting for some sick fuck.

Johnny drops something behind you. You stiffen and swallow, bringing yourself back to this. Back to Buck, and the office, and the fact that he's looking at you like he almost feels bad. He should know by now that you don't need him feeling sorry for you, especially because he's never done a damn thing to help you. You'll admit that he's tried, but he can only do so much . The small things, like giving you a place to hang your hat and ease your bones, have to be enough. Besides, you won't exactly let him do anything more than that, because as far as you're concerned, you've been on your own your entire life, and you don't need him. He likes to think that you do, holding things over your head the way he does, but it's a game of give and take. Buck needs what you offer, too, and you swear that sometimes he forgets.

"You gonna gimme my goddamn key back, or what?" You suck your tongue over your teeth and raise your eyebrows at him.

"I reckon so," he says, but you can tell he doesn't want to, and you don't blame him. "You're lucky I like you so damn much, Dal."

"You figure?"

You snort and snatch the key from him as he holds it out in front of you. He doesn't like you; he _deals _with you, and he's probably one of the only people that know how. Gives you what you want and sends you on your way, because the way he sees it is that you're safer to be around when you're happy. That's laughable. You're on the opposite side of the spectrum, as far as being safe is concerned. He should know better than anybody else that you're unstable at best. You have a blatant disregard for consequences, an unnerving ignorance toward social norms. Simply put, you are a threat to yourself and anybody who has the misfortunate of being around you.

Standing up, you can't help but think of Jane. You haven't hear from her in Lord knows how long, and you have a suspicion it's her brother's doing. But you know it's for her own good, because you're not the sort of person she needs to be associating with.

"You're a little shit, Dallas." Buck crosses his arms and sits back in his seat, glaring at you like you're the son of the devil himself. "I really, really hope you know that."

You clamp your teeth down on the inside of your cheek, back toward him as Johnny grimaces. "Anything else, Buck?" you ask as you hear his chair squeak.

"Yeah," he says. "Quit makin' yourself scarce."

You grin and slam the door behind you.

* * *

The air is stagnant, like the room hasn't been lived in for months . You trace your fingers over the condensation on the inside of the window, listening absently as Johnny shuffles around behind you. It feels like home, like safety. All the voices that have been whirring around in your head have stopped. You're at peace with what's around you—the walls that welcome you with softly whispered hellos, and the floor that is eager to once again hold your weight. You almost forgot what it's like to be wanted.

You are back to feeling indestructible, as if nothing and no one can touch you, because you are finally where you belong. Somewhere at the back of your mind, you know that these feelings are temporary—that at any minute, Johnny's going to clap a hand on your shoulder, and the twist of his lips is going to send you back into a downward spiral. You don't know if you'll be able to come out of it next time, because you seem to be getting progressively worse. He's a disease—_your _disease—and you have yet to find a cure. It's not as easy as telling him to take a hike, or saying that you don't want him, because you can't avoid him. He's a leech with teeth, and he's latched himself onto whatever is left of your life. Your mom always said that you need to be careful with the people you get involved with, and you guess that this is what you get for not listening to her.

But you never listen, so it's fair to say that you deserve this and that you've brought it all upon yourself. You just never would've imagined that Johnny Cade would be the person to have your mind in a state like this. The only intention you ever had for him, all you ever meant for him to be to you, was a distraction. But you let it get this far, and you let it get this out of control, and all of this is _your_ fault. Sure, you know you've played no part in how manipulative and vindictive he is, but you make it easy for him to be that way. It's like you've been encouraging him this entire time, and you can't stop him because you don't know how. It's gotten too far too fast.

You turn around and face him. He's fiddling with the radio, trying to find something with a semblance of clarity. All you can do is stand there and watch his muscles pinch and pull through his shirt, and it's then that you understand why you've kept him around this long. He raises his eyes enough to look at you, and you stare back as he beckons you over with one finger. Your boots _thunk _against the flooring, the sound hollow as it reverberates around inside your skull.

"If I can make you come with one finger," he says, winding his fingers in the front of your shirt, "imagine what I can do with my entire body."

"Funny." You roll your eyes and shove him backwards, and you shiver when you hear the back of him hit the wall. You hover over him, hands on either side of his head, debating. One step forward, two steps back—you just can't win.

He glides his fingers over your jaw and grins. "You don't like me very much, do you?" he asks, but it's like he's teasing you about it.

Of course you don't like him. You keep him around so you don't have to go to bed alone at night, but he is everything you hate in a person. Maybe you used to be able to at least stand him, but that seems like a different lifetime ago. Whenever you think of him, you think of this. You think of big dark eyes, and tanned skin, and all the different ways that you can feel him. You think of how you wish you'd never had the displeasure of meeting him, and how you're constantly regretting the day you figured out you wanted him the way he wanted you. But mostly, you think that it's only going to be a matter of time before he gets bored of you and finds somebody else to hook his teeth into.

You hoist him up the wall and let him wrap his legs around your waist, tight as if he's trying to prove that he owns you.

"You ain't stayin' here tonight," you tell him as he runs his hands up the back of your shirt.

He looks at you and snorts like you're just so stupid. "Course I am." He leans in, grinning as he presses his forehead against yours. "You don't have it in you to throw me out, Dallas."

"My house, my rules," you snap. "If I say you're leaving, then you're fucking leaving. Get me?"

This is your room that you paid for with your own money that you had to sell yourself to get. You didn't do this for him.

Did you?


End file.
